


Like when we were younger

by hungerpunch



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungerpunch/pseuds/hungerpunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn keeps a little piece of Danny with him while on tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like when we were younger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [castoffstarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/castoffstarter/gifts).



> Well this originally started as chatfic with [cyclogenesis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/addictedkitten) and then morphed into something more. Dedicated to [castoffstarter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/castoffstarter), beta'd splendidly by [authocracy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/authocracy). Not Brit-picked :( Any remaining errors are my own.

When Zayn unzips his luggage to find one of Danny's sweatshirts folded up at the top, it hits him like a punch in the face. He rocks back on his heels, presses a fist to his mouth and just stares at it for a second before reaching down and grabbing it, slightly panicked. He pushes his face into it and scrunches his eyes shut—god, it smells like Danny. He must have slipped back into Zayn's room to leave it right before being driven to the airport. Zayn rolls his face against the soft material and feels a sting behind his eyelids; draws in a deep breath and lets the smell of Danny’s cologne and laundry detergent, a bit of nutmeg and maybe a little black pepper, and the faintest scent of Zayn’s own cigarettes steep in his lungs.

He knocks his cap off and pulls it on. It's not even just _any_ sweatshirt. It's one of Danny's oldest—one of the few that survived his multiple growth spurts—from a basketball camp when they were young. Once black, it's faded to some shade of grey never sold in stores, the logo of the basketball mostly worn off. Zayn smooths it down his chest. It's still big on him, the hem bunching up against his belt buckle, the fraying cuffs covering his hands so just his fingertips peek out. 

And there, in the left sleeve, a small tear. Zayn bites his lip as he traces it with a reverent touch. He recalls the day this happened; in year eight. Zayn was being picked on pretty badly, shoved continuously into a locker over and over. Danny was two levels up in school but for some miraculous reason he'd been walking down the same hallway, and, well. Danny laid into the kid, quite viciously as he'd already been well into boxing by then. He'd been wearing the basketball sweatshirt and Zayn's bully had yanked the sleeve of it so hard it'd ripped. Danny's mom tried to sew it, but as the head of the Riach household she had a million other things to do, so now it's reopened like an old wound from the rushed stitch job. And from time, too, Zayn supposes. It's been awhile. Still, it's not a big rip like it originally had been, and Zayn doesn't feel any desire to hunt down someone to mend it.

Danny's got to be aware of Zayn's fondness for this sweatshirt by now, the way Zayn would "borrow" it for weeks on end back home. Zayn tries not to speculate on what Danny was thinking when he left it for Zayn in his suitcase, without a word about it, like it was a secret. Just for them. 

Over the course of the tour it becomes Zayn's biggest comfort. Days when he wakes up and it feels like the world's crushing his chest; rainy days; days when he can't grab two minutes of real sleep or real food or real bloody privacy; days he can't get Skype to work or when by the time he's got a break for a phone call everyone in Bradford is sleeping—any moment that drives Zayn to the brink of some insecurity about anything at all, he pulls out the basketball sweatshirt and curls up where he can, trying to absorb some strength from it. After some weeks the smell of Danny fades of course, and Zayn tries not to let it break his heart, just rubs the cuffs over his face and fingers the rip in the sleeve and gets on with it. If he starts thinking of the sweatshirt as his own personal armor, well, everybody does what they have to, right?

The day he can't find it is a fucking shitshow. Zayn oversleeps, doesn’t get a chance for breakfast, receives a less-than-subtle frown from Lou while she tries to cope with his disastrous hair in under five minutes, nearly dies from caffeine withdrawal on the way to a series of inane interviews even Louis' impeccable humor can't make enjoyable. By the time they're carted back to the tour bus he just wants a steaming plate of noodles and his headphones and Danny's sweatshirt. When he can't find it in the first place he looks, he panics. After five minutes of dumping everything out of his bag and meticulously combing through all his stuff, Zayn's got the whole fucking crew looking around for it, heart beating far too hard in his chest.

When Paul pulls it from a nook behind the driver's seat (Zayn doesn't even remember being over there) and holds it above his head, everybody gives a relieved cheer, and Zayn can feel all the eyes burning holes in him as he rushes forward to collect it. He doesn't realize he's shaking until he reaches to take it from Paul, fingers fumbling. He swallows heavily as he pulls it to his chest and turns, gives a timid wave of thanks to everyone, and keeps his eyes down. _Just a sweatshirt, what’s his problem?_ they’re probably all thinking.

Niall snags his sleeve before he can get too far. His eyes flick to the sweatshirt and back up to Zayn. "Watchin' _The O.C._ in my bunk if you wanna chill," he says, achieving the most welcoming balance of neutral and friendly like he _didn't_ just witness Zayn's meltdown. Zayn wants to die of gratitude a little. 

"Yeah, be right there." He goes into the cramped tour bus bathroom and splashes some water on his face to calm himself down before slipping into the sweatshirt and climbing into Niall's bunk. It's a small spot for two lads but they're both thin as twigs. Zayn intertwines their legs easily and snuggles right up to Niall, angling his head on Niall's chest so he can watch _The O.C._ on Niall's laptop, propped on Niall's stomach. Niall loops an arm around him like it's second nature (probably is, at this point).

"Danny's, innit?" Niall murmurs in the quiet space between them as the intro ends and Ryan and Seth make their way onto the screen. 

Zayn feels the moment to deny it come and go, and he doesn't even care anymore. Doesn't freeze or shutter up like he might if someone else asked. Instead he just sighs into Niall's chest. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

Niall's hand comes up to stroke through Zayn's hair. It feels super nice, so Zayn hums a little in encouragement. "Just saw him wearing it once er twice when he was here. Not so hard to put together." 

"Sorry for going mad about it," Zayn says, half into Niall's soft white shirt.

He can feel Niall's shrug. "Nah. It means a lot. I get it."

"Thanks," Zayn whispers, and Niall taps two fingers against his temple in acknowledgment before resuming his petting and they lapse into a comfortable silence, attentions turning fully to _The O.C._

On the flight back to London, Niall asks if Danny's picking him up from Heathrow and at Zayn's nod, smiles brightly. "Good," he says, and claps Zayn's shoulder before nudging past him to go hunt down the flight attendant for a drink refill. Zayn’s left in a daze in his wake, lips turning up sheepishly. _Danny._

He shrugs the sweatshirt on as the plane's descending so maybe it won't smell so much like recycled air and tries not to crawl out of his skin with how anxious he feels. He and Danny haven't talked about Zayn having the sweatshirt, not once.

Baggage claimed and goodbyes said, Zayn passes through the vestibule at the exit and his eyes land on Danny right away, leaned up against the car Zayn bought for him (against all protests, and there had been a few). As soon as Danny sees Zayn, his eyes crinkle up with unashamed happiness, and if his smile doesn't say it all, the crushing hug he draws Zayn into does. 

"Welcome home," Danny says, and feeling his deep bass rumble in his chest makes Zayn drop the handle on his luggage and bring his arms up to squeeze back just as tight. "Nice sweatshirt," Danny whispers as he draws away eventually, cheeks red, and Zayn has to laugh. 

“Wore it all the time,” Zayn answers before he can stop himself. It’s not as bad as thanking Danny for realizing how homesick he was or any of the exponentially sappier shit he thought about the entire tour, but Zayn freezes slightly, an overall tension in his muscles that Danny can probably feel with his hand still on Zayn’s shoulder. 

There’s something in Danny’s eyes that Zayn can’t quite discern, but that he hopes will come to fruition when they’re out of the paparazzi’s eye, preferably on their couch with Billie at their feet, preferably with slow and sleepy kisses. “That was the point,” Danny says, quiet even through his grin. His fingers squeeze the bones of Zayn’s shoulder before he stoops to pick Zayn’s luggage up, and Zayn startles and battles him for it because he doesn’t need his bloody luggage carried, certainly not by his best friend. 

Zayn buckles himself into the passenger seat and as they drive past the myriad of cameras Zayn watches the flashbulbs cast Danny’s profile into high relief and thinks, something hot and undeniable blooming in his gut, that he is going to worship Danny someday. When the time is right.


End file.
